YOUR FIRST CUP OF KARAK

So, How many of us have endless business ideas running around during that break time? I have a love/hate relationship with my karak moments. Usually, if someone from office extends an invitation for karak after work, its about bitching in some form or the other. I avoid it and 9/10 times I spent my after work karak hours contemplating if a business plan would work. Especially on (drumroll) ... (tada) .. a cafe that sells karak.

Blowing air into my cup, hoping to cool down the piping hot karak and sipping cautiously with shivering lips, I've started to think. Let's deep dive into my self-induced feasibility study.

Imagine, you've just opened your shiny new karak joint in the heart of Doha. Congratulations, entrepreneur-saab! You're now the proud owner of the 100th karak shop within a five-kilometre radius. You may as well have opened a barbershop in Najma- good luck standing out.

You've got the whole circus in place. Dim lighting that could double as mood lighting in a B-grade Bollywood romance. Copper kettles polished like a Gulf expat’s dreams. A menu full of cardamom poetry, cinnamon drama, and fonts so stylish they give the alphabet an inferiority complex.

Ambient Arabic fusion music? Check.

Air-conditioning so cold it could preserve mummies? Check.

Neon signs that scream “quirky” louder than your cousin who just discovered TikTok? Double check.

But alas, there’s a teeny problem. Everyone already has a favourite karak guy.

That old salsabeel cafeteria in Wakra? They've been brewing karak since dinosaurs roamed Wakra beach. Their chai barista, He doesn't use recipes .. he measures with instinct passed down by forefathers who fought dehydration in the desert.

Then there's the jolly fellow in Chaya Kada, Bin Mahmoud. Their karak/masala samovar has cured fevers, heartbreaks, and more hangovers than Panadol ever could. He stirs his tea while humming mallu lullabies. Their tea tastes like closure, nostalgia, and a tight hug in a paper cup.

And that minimalist, soy-oat-almond-rose-latte fusion bar looking cafe at Katara? That one's not a karak shop, it’s a lifestyle intervention. Fair warning : Their tea concoction is served with affirmations and photosynthesis. A little walk and you reach Kamachi, the aroma of smooth karak excites you as you contemplate a hot cup of this joyful liquid and start a long walk with the view.

But you, dear dreamer, you are new. Which in this part of the world means invisible. You could be brewing elixirs of eternal youth, but until someone’s uncle's friend's cousin says, “Haan, woh achha chai banata hai” (Yep, They make good chai), you're just background noise.

So you panic. You'd spend.

You put up a signboard the size of the Trump tower’s ego. You light up your shop like its the wedding night. It’s so bright.. pilots are mistaking it for the runway.

Then come the cups .. it cannot be just mere cups, no. It must be Sculptures. Art pieces. Things people sip from with pinkies raised. One influencer tried to NFT hers.

You invest in content creation .. slow-motion karak being poured like liquid gold, steam rising like divine intervention, a drone shot so low it almost blended someone’s samosa.

And still, no one's walking in. Not even the guy you pay to be the pretend customer.

Time to unleash the influencers. You'd gather a dozen of them, all looking like they fell out of a Vogue-Qatar crossover. One claims your karak “activated her ancestral chakra.” Another calls it “spiced heartbreak with a vanilla aftertaste.” They all post. They all leave. You trend for seven minutes and vanish like office Wi-Fi during the Teams calls.

Still nothing.

So you escalate. Free Wi-Fi. Charging ports. A selfie wall so extra it needs a passport. You print loyalty cards with QR codes, fortune-telling, and scratch-n-sniff stickers that smell like saffron insecurity.

You even introduce a limited-edition raisin-karak served in golden cups named after long-dead Persian Sultans with digestion issues. Someone on your team suggests a talking robot parrot who recites your menu. You don’t say no. You've stopped saying no.

Meanwhile, that OG karak cafeteria? Still existing next to that palm tree, churning out karak and blessed. Same pot. Same stout half glasses. Same queue that looks like the Doha Metro on salary day.

No signs. No slogans. No sad influencers posing like they lost their goat in the desert. Just tea. Because, my friend, sometimes mediocrity with nostalgia slaps harder than perfection with a filter.

And if you’re the 100th karak shop, you better show up like a Bharatanatyam dancer on Red Bull ... sequins, firecrackers, flaming jalebis and complimentary gulab jamuns for anyone crying over an ex.

Or, you know… brew something no one else can. Something thats just you. Because in this jungle of steel kettles and overachieving signages, it’s not about the karak.

It’s about being the one cup that people would cross the street for. Its emotion, connection and that feeling tugging you at familiarity. The feeling that put you at ease and calm. Even if ten steps away, there's already a decent one.

(sipping again) .. And back to reality. A week and more left to pay-day.

So, the lesson? .. I need to stir wisely, yet drink this while hot, and remind myself why I still frequent this cafeteria in wakra .. no amount of karak hashtags can replace the flavour of soul.

One more day to that weekend karak. Persevere.